


Guilt

by MintJam



Series: Live a lie [7]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Caning, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotions, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mainly angst, Porn with Feelings, Smut, Subdrop, These 2 idiots, Tommy has fucked up, Whipping, i love them, really fucked up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-07-20 08:51:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19989409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MintJam/pseuds/MintJam
Summary: So Alfie knows everything. Tommy has fucked up the one good thing in his life because he was drunk and confused and sad and weak. It feels like his heart has been crushed in his chest.He has no idea how he is going to make it through the rest of the day with guilt running through his veins like acid. It’s not even eight o’clock in the morning.





	1. Guilt: part 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of my Tommy /Alfie AU series. Follows directly on from "Peacock" so will probably make most sense if you read that first. But hey, it's not rocket science.
> 
> This is set in series 3, the day after the orgy at the Russians' residence.

Tommy stalks through the building, teeth gritted, shoulders set, radiating an energy that says _keep away_ louder than any spoken words. He heads straight into his office, bypassing the staff and slamming the door behind him. Lizzie has the good sense not to enquire.

He tries to focus on the day’s priorities. He can do this. He’s good at compartmentalising. He’s a fucking _expert_ at it. The tunnel. They’ve seen the jewels with their own eyes now, so he needs to contact the clay kickers and get them started on the digging straight away.He scribbles a list of names, strides back out to where Lizzie sits and tosses it at her desk. “I need all of these men at Charlie’s yard by 6pm tonight,” he barks, “and cancel everything else this morning.”

“And good morning to you too, Tommy,” Lizzie sing-songs, raising one eyebrow at him but otherwise holding her tongue. He storms back to his office without so much as a nod and slumps heavily into his chair before lighting a cigarette.He leans his head on the back of the chair and blows a plume of smoke slowly up towards the ceiling.He has no idea how he is going to make it through the rest of the day with guilt running through his veins like acid. It’s not even eight o’clock in the morning.

He’s on his third cigarette since he got here, not having moved, when there’s a loud commotion in the main office. He can hear Lizzie issuing warnings in a low voice, “in a fucking _foul_ mood I warn you…and he specifically said no meetings,” and then John, “oh he’s gonna want to hear this, I can promise you!”

God the last person he wants to see is John. It was bad enough having to listen to him mercilessly teasing Arthur all the way back from London in the car yesterday, going on and on about how he couldn’t believe he’d cheated on Linda with a Russian prostitute. And Tommy had driven in silence, inwardly feeling Arthur’s pain, knowing he’d done something just as terrible himself. Why oh why did he fuck Tatiana? He’s such an idiot. _Emotionally crippled_ Alfie called him once, and he was fucking well right wasn’t he?

A moment later the door to his office smashes open and John barrels in excitedly shouting, “Mornin' Tommy, you have just _got_ to hear this.”

“For fucks sake, I said _no meetings_ ,” Tommy bellows at the top of his voice, entirely for Lizzie’s benefit, as John clearly has no intention of leaving without getting whatever it is off his chest.

“What is it John?” he asks exasperatedly, pretending to leaf through the papers on his desk. “And it had better be quick.”

“Solomons has _finally_ lost it,” John chuckles, sauntering over to the bar and helping himself to a whisky. Tommy’s chest constricts at the mention of Alfie, and suddenly he is all ears.“Go on.”

“Well, you know that lad we planted in the Duke’s household, to spy on them,” he starts.

“The lad from Small Heath who speaks Russian?” says Tommy, as calmly as possible, knowing full well who John is talking about.

“Yeah, him. Well, the two-faced little bastard turned up back in Small Heath last night and it seems we weren’t the only ones paying him for information.”

 _"_ No?” _This sounds bad. On many levels._

“No. Turns out Solomons has been paying him too.”

And _fuck_ ….Tommy’s stomach damn well nearly falls through the floor.

“No idea when he got to ‘im, but he got to ‘im somehow, offered him a pretty penny too by all accounts.”

“So this lad goes to Camden to give Solomons an update yesterday,” _oh fucking hell_ , “and apparently Alfie isn’t interested in what the Grand Duke and Duchess are up to _at all_. Nah, he just wants to know exactly what went on in the _evening_ , after you two’d been to the treasury and he’d left. You know, all the drinking and the fucking. Starts asking the lad _exactly_ what it was like – were there men or women – who fucked who, all the bloody details.”

 _Oh Jesus Christ._

“Apparently he had a right laugh when he heard about Arthur’s little lapse of piety. He really doesn’t like him, does he?” Tommy takes a deep breath, conscious he needs to calm the fuck down and hear John out.

“Reckon old Alfie-boy was pissed he missed out,” chortles John, “heard rumours he’s swings both ways, probably right up his street that whole orgy. Did you see what some of 'em were up to?” John laughs, still clearly revelling in whatever _he_ got up to that night.

“John…” Tommy barks in a warning tone.

“Wait, wait, I haven’t got to the best bit yet. So the lad’s giving him the down and dirty, describing the whole sordid fuckin’ scene, when Alfie asks him about the Duchess, where was _she_ the whole time? So of course the kid tells Alfie she was with _you,_ and apparently Solomons just loses it…goes fucking _ballistic…_ smashes his cane over the lad’s head. Snapped the bloody thing in two!"

Tommy can feel the blood draining from his face, nausea swelling in his stomach. He can just picture Alfie's rush of rage, fast and terrifying.

"I always did wonder what he carries it for, whether it was a cover…” John muses, looking thoughtful for a moment. Then he claps his hands on his thighs and says, “so it looks like you’ve got yourself a love rival Tommy. Alfie’s sweet on that Duchess himself!” John concludes gleefully.

The only sane thought going through Tommy’s head right now is to thank some higher power that John is so fucking clueless sometimes. All the other thoughts involve lying down right now and dying. He needs a drink…preferably three…he walks over to the bar as steadily as possible and hopes John can’t see the tremor in his hands as he pours himself a large whiskey.

“So is it true she tried to bloody strangle you?” John asks, snorting out a laugh, and Tommy can see the smirk on his face without even having to turn round. “That’s some fucked up shit Tommy… she might look like a film star but I sure as hell wouldn’t trust that mad bitch with a rope around _my_ neck!”

“So when did you hear all this?” Tommy asks, completely ignoring the remark, he doesn't want to think about Tatiana, doesn't want to think about that night ever again.

“Alfie sent the kid straight back to Small Heath with strict instructions to tell the Shelby’s what he’d done. Said if the message didn't get back he'd end up at the bottom of the canal. Found him in the Garrison last night, scared half out of his wits.”

“So he fuckin’ should be,” Tommy spits.

“Alfie refused to pay him a penny apparently,” John finishes, "I told him he can forget getting anything from the Peaky Blinders either. Fuckin turncoat.”

“Good. Alright, fuck off then John,” Tommy says dismissively.

“ _Jesus_ , Lizzie was right, fuckin _foul_ mood you're in,” John mutters as he saunters slowly towards the door.

 _So Alfie knows everything._ Tommy has fucked up the one good thing in his life because he was drunk and confused and sad and weak. It feels like his heart has been crushed in his chest.

—-—

That night, he goes back to his old room in Small Heath. He tells himself it’s because he can’t face the drive out to Warwickshire, can’t face the maids, can’t face Charlie. He wants to curl up and hibernate in this dismal room where the walls are as dark as his thoughts. He doesn’t deserve anything good or bright or warm, and so he doesn’t even light a fire, just lets the cold, stale room overtake him.

He’s managed to keep his mind busy all day, but now that he’s alone with his guilt he can’t stop thinking – his head is playing over what he’s done on some incessant loop. He can’t excuse himself, no matter how many times he replays the events of the past few days. Yes, he was shaken by Alfie’s recent bout of jealousy. And yes, he’s definitely angry with Alfie for spying on him. But he’s gone and proved Alfie’s worst fears hasn’t he? He told Alfie he was _his_ , and then he went and fucked Tatiana less than 24 hours later. Because he is fucked in the head, a bad person. He doesn’t _deserve_ Alfie. He deserves to be on his own. That’s why every good thing in his life dies. Because he fucking kills it.

It’s 1am and he is still wide awake, sitting up against his headboard looking down at his thighs, at the marks Alfie left there just a couple of days ago, sucked into his skin.The ferocity with which Alfie had marked him – wanted him – had scared him at the time, overwhelmed him. He’d made Alfie stop in the end, given in, failed. Maybe if he’d wanted Alfie enough he could have taken more.

The bruises have bloomed from red to darkest purple and he pinches at them, satisfied with the pain. Right now he’d give anything for Alfie to do it again, he’d take more, do better, stay stiller. He starts making ridiculous wagers in his head, if he’d lasted five more minutes, Alfie would take him back. He takes off his undershirt and examines the chains of bruises down each inner arm, sucking over one of them, testing it, bringing more blood to the surface. He moves onto another. Maybe if he holds onto these marks he can still be Alfie’s, still have a chance. He bites down hard on the soft skin and breathes into the pain. He’s being fucking ridiculous, so pathetic he almost chuckles at himself, except that the laughter catches in his throat and then he is crying, slow, fractured sobs that seem to emanate from the pit of his stomach and offer no release.

It's not like they'd ever discussed exclusivity, but even Tommy can't use that as an excuse. Alfie always knew what he needed, even when he didn't understand it himself. Alfie looked after him, watched him throw up, hugged him when he cried. Fucking cared for him. And this is how he's repaid him. And he can't help but hope that Alfie is feeling bad, is missing him. Maybe then there's a chance. But that's stupid...Alfie is probably relieved he found out now what a fuck-up Tommy is. Why would he want him now? He’d give anything to obliterate the past 48 hours, _anything_. Of course that’s impossible, so he opts for the next best thing, reaching for the opium stashed in his bedside drawer. He can obliterate his mind and his feelings for a few hours at least. Maybe get some sleep.

———

Johnny Doggs and the Lees are having a fine old time at Hampton Court when Tommy visits the next day – camp set up on the land he acquired to dig the tunnel. He goes to check on progress but also because it’s good to see the boys from the war; he’d trust them all with his life. He keeps himself busy, it’s how he’s always coped, and he can’t stop now, can’t let his mind get carried away with Alfie. If he can get through the days he can drink through the nights. Like old times. He’s staying at Ada’s, but he can’t face talking to her that evening, so he lies about some dinner meetings and drinks himself stupid in a pub by the canal where he hopes nobody knows him. By midnight he can’t see straight. Can’t think straight. He walks all the way to Camden, swaying and stumbling, muttering to himself, rehearsing words he knows will make no difference. 

He arrives at Alfie’s house with no real plan; he just couldn’t stop himself, headed here on instinct. He sees a light on downstairs and it looks so warm. He thinks of the times Alfie has looked after him, bathed him, soothed him through nightmares and migraines and he wants so badly to be in that warm glow, unsullied, deserving. He knocks on the front door, knowing it’s a bad idea, knowing he must reek of whiskey and despair, but he needs to see the look on Alfie's face, needs to see if there is even a shred of hope. He wonders what is taking Alfie so long to answer but eventually he hears the bolts sliding and the man himself opens the door, of course he does, he doesn't keep live-in staff. He's wearing just an undershirt and his gun holster; Tommy frowns and wonders why.

“It’s one in the morning,” Alfie growls, “now _fuck_ off.”His voice is low and menacing, his eyes as hard as steel. Tommy just sways on the doorstep, suddenly overwhelmed with his need.

“Alfie I’m sorry,” he slurs, looking at the floor, too scared to look up and see the reaction. “I’m sorry, I know you don’t wanna hear it, but,”

“Sorry fuckin’ state more like,” Alfie snarls, looking him up and down and curling his lip, “and you’re right, I don’t wanna hear it.” He glares furiously at him for a few long seconds, and Tommy tries to read anything positive into those dark eyes, he dares to think they might look sad, but on second thoughts it's just disdain. Alfie braces his hand on the door frame, taking two steps towards the threshold, then spits at Tommy's feet and slams the door in his face. Tommy’s legs buckle beneath him, he feels like the wind has be sucked out of him as he collapses into a heap on the doorstep. He puts his head between his knees, folding himself in two, has no fucking idea what to do.

The next thing he knows there are hands on his arms, shaking him and pulling him to his feet. How long has he been here? “Alfie?” he murmurs blearily, but it’s Ishmael’s voice that answers, and he realises there is an engine running and a car is waiting behind him. Alfie must have called him. He is being escorted away from the premises like some sad old alley rat. No more than he deserves.

Ada is concerned when he is dumped back at her house in the middle of the night, but he passes it off as over indulgence and staggers to bed to avoid her questions. The next morning he creeps out of the house early, retreats back to Small Heath.

———

Days pass and he limps on, he can’t allow himself to collapse, there is too much to do. The tunnel is progressing and there are difficult negotiations between the communists and various political factions. Added to which, the Grace Shelby Institute is due to open in three weeks. He needs to focus, needs to sleep, and he is barely managing either. Lizzie and Polly are talking about him, that much is obvious, speculating as to why he is so cold and clipped with everyone. He doesn't have time to deal with their concern, he wants the whole rest of the world to disappear and leave him to his misery.

He turns up drunk at Alfie’s once more, only Alfie doesn’t even open the door this time. Ishmael just appears in the car several minutes later and politely removes him from the doorstep, “Come on Mr Shelby. Where are you staying? Let’s get you home.” And the pity in his voice is almost the worst thing.

He takes to sleeping in his old room several times a week, making various excuses about convenience that no one really buys. One night he smokes so much opium in a bid to switch off his mind that he doesn’t make it into the office at all the next day. It’s a mistake, Lizzie turns up and finds him, virtually comatose on the bed. He tells her it’s Grace, the imminent opening of her Foundation bringing his grief to the surface. He only hopes she believes him – the mention of his wife is usually enough to stop Lizzie’s questions at least. The truth is it is like grief - the desperate sense of loss, despair - and, just like Grace, the loss is his fault. _His_ fucking fault.

After that he takes to wandering the familiar haunts of Small Heath in the early hours instead, in a bid to get through the night-time and limit his intake of drugs. It’s less risky than the opium, although he still uses that as well, and better than rattling around in Arrow House.

Which is how he finds himself with the horses in Charlie’s yard one night at 4 o’clock in the morning. He stands, petting one of the the creatures, a beautiful dappled grey, pouring out his heart. “You see you’re a beauty,” he says, stroking her nose, running his fingers through her mane. “But me? I’m a bad man eh? I do bad things." He leans against the animal, breathing in her warm scent. He misses Alfie's smell he realises, and his warmth. The man is always warm. "Only this time I’ve done a very bad thing – to someone I really care about. And I’ve only got myself to blame. So I’ve just gotta get used to being on my own again.”

Funny how he can talk to the horses, but he can’t seem to talk to people anymore. Not that there’s anyone he can tell about Alfie anyway. It was just between the two of them, wasn’t it? And he realises now how whole he’d felt with Alfie. Until he’d wrecked it for one worthless night with that crazy bitch. He lets out a groan and winds his fingers further into the horse's mane. He hates himself, he's pathetic and ridiculous for thinking he could ever have made this work with Alfie. Maybe it's better he fucked it up before Alfie realised how hopeless he is. That woukd have been worse he guesses.

Curly’s gentle muttering startles him, he’s wandering between the horses, shuffling hay and filling the water trough. “Oh ‘ello Tommy, I thought that was you. What you doin’ ‘ere,” he laughs, “talking to the ‘orses at all hours? Can’t sleep?”

Curly might be simple but he has a knack for seeing the plain truth of a situation. “Mornin’ Curly,” Tommy croaks, “just missed the horses didn’t I?” 

“Oh they miss you too Tommy, they miss you too,” Curly giggles. “Clever that grey too. Did she ‘elp?” 

“Don’t think she’s got the answer to my problems, Curly. She’s a good listener though.”

“Well, if you care about somebody, you gotta tell ‘em, Tommy,” he says earnestly. “No good tellin’ a horse.” And as usual, Tommy thinks Curly is the wisest person he knows.

“Think I’ll just lie down here for a bit,” Tommy says, slumping onto a hay bale. He can see the faint outline of dawn on the horizon, pale and shadowy, and he lays down to watch the sun come up over the factories and terraced houses. He can feel the outline of a plan forming. It’s worth a try.

“Curly, can you fetch me a riding crop? Wrap it in brown paper?”

“Sure Tommy, I can do that,” Curly smiles, pleased to feel important.

“Bring it here in an hour or so. With a pen and some paper. I’m just gonna close my eyes.”

Later that day there’s a parcel on it’s way to Camden. Inside the brown paper packaging is a note:

_Dear Alfie,_

_I know you must hate me right now, but I promise you I hate myself more. I can’t explain why I did what I did, just that I was sad and weak and scared. You can make me pay. Just make me yours again._

_T.S._

This may well be the stupidest thing he’s ever done, but he'll never forgive himself if he doesn't try.


	2. Guilt: part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The postman doesn’t often knock at Alfie’s door. Almost everything gets sent directly to the bakery, so being handed a parcel on his own front doorstep on a Thursday morning makes him understandably suspicious - given his line of work and all. Who the fuck wants to make a point by sending a message direct to his house?
> 
> Chapter 2...when Alfie finally gets round to opening Tommy's package.

The postman doesn’t often knock at Alfie’s door. Almost everything gets sent directly to the bakery, so being handed a parcel on his own front doorstep on a Thursday morning makes him understandably suspicious - given his line of work and all. Who the _fuck_ wants to make a point by sending a message direct to his house?

He takes the package inside and sets it down on the chest in the hall. Upon closer examination, he recognises the handwriting. And the Birmingham postmark. He leaves it there, picks up his hat and cane, and heads out the door. He is absolutely not _fuckin_ ’ interested.

Ishmael is outside, as usual, and greets him with a polite, “morning Mr Solomons.” Alfie replies with a grunt of acknowledgement. It’s as much as he can muster. He’s trying to tie up some new contracts this week, deal with a fall in takings from the racetracks and keep an eye on some new characters who’ve been sniffing around one of his properties. He needs his mind on the job, so it is absolutely infuriating that one Thomas _fucking_ Shelby has just succeeded in planting himself solidly back in Alfie’s head, front and centre. He did _not_ need to be reminded of the man this morning. More to the point, he did not need to be reminded what a consummate bloody _fool_ he is. Or was. Definitely was. Because he is not going to let himself be taken in by that fucking bastard again.

By the time he arrives at the bakery he is clenching his teeth so hard he’s given himself a headache. Woe fucking betide any idiot who gets in his way today.Olly knocks warily on the door to his office, having witnessed the intense look on his face as he arrived.

“Good morning, Alfie.”

“No, it ain’t,” Alfie barks. “What do you want?”

“Erm, Mr Shelby’s office rang to say he can’t make your meeting this morning.”

“Good,” Alfie huffs. So Tommy can turn up drunk on his doorstep at all hours but can’t make a fucking _business_ meeting? Cunt needs to make ‘is mind up.

“Fine. And?”

“Well, erm somebody calling himself an Oddfellow rang. Said he’ll be here at 5,” Olly stammers.

“Right. Got any fucking work to do?” Alfie shouts when Olly is still standing there a few seconds later.

“Yes, yes, I have. That’s all.”

“Well fuck off then.” Olly doesn’t need to be told twice.

Alfie manages to do a few semi-productive things that morning, whilst absolutely _not_ thinking about that parcel and why Tommy could possibly have sent it. He doesn’t want to care about it and he certainly doesn’t want to be curious about what’s inside. It’s mere existence irks him. How can he have been stupid enough to think that Tommy Shelby might actually have feelings for him – he should have a right belly laugh at himself. How could he _ever_ have thought that the man with the coldest stare in England could become anything more than a half-decent fuck? OK, a very decent fuck. He’ll give him that. Well, no one takes Alfie Solomons for a fucking fool, least of all some scrawny gypsy from Birmingham. He’s gonna pay alright.

———

The Oddfellow, as he calls himself, which frankly Alfie thinks is pathetic and somewhat childish, is a peevish man with a public school accent. Alfie hates him immediately.

“I hear you have information that could be of some interest to us,” the man starts.

“Right, straight to the fuckin’ point eh?”

“Well, why not? We understand you’re a partner of Mr Shelby’s.” _What is that supposed to mean? Could be innocent, doesn’t sound it._

“I have a lot of business partners,” Alfie says slowly.

“And as I’m sure you must know, Mr Shelby is of particular interest to us in the current climate. Useful you might say. For as long as he toes the line, at least. A little unpredictable though, our Mr Shelby, isn’t he?”

 _You can fuckin’ say that again,_ Alfie thinks.

“Sharp but capricious,” the man continues to muse, studying Alfie for a reaction, not getting one, “you clearly don’t mind a challenge, Mr Solomons.”

Alfie uses all his might to keep his face neutral. _Our_ _Mr Shelby ..._ thatfucking grates on him.

“Still, his latest pastime is proving most helpful in keeping him quiet, dampening any rebellious urges…” the man goes on.

“Hmmm,” Alfie hums, keeping his face blank, because he has no idea where the man is going with this.

“…although you might want to tell your _partner_ to be careful which opium dens he frequents. Unscrupulous, some of these owners. Never know what they cut the stuff with.” _Right,_ now _that_ was clearly a threat. The small smile that creeps in at the corner of the man’s mouth makes Alfie want to punch him.

“Well, I ain’t in the habit of telling my business partners how to spend their free time,” he growls, tightening his grip on the cane in his hands.

“Oh?” the man says, mockingly inquisitive. Whether he’s insinuating anything or not, Alfie has had enough of him.

Yeah, he might have been all set to use these establishment bastards to fuck Tommy over, but he’s changed his mind all of a sudden. He’s not giving this slimy, obnoxious git anything. Alfie draws the meeting to a close fairly quickly after that. Sounds like Tommy’s well on his way to fucking _himself_ over anyway.

———

Ishmael has the night off; Olly asks if he’d like another driver, but he surprises himself when he says he thinks he’ll stroll home. He feels like stretching his back out and it’s unusual, but not unheard of, so Olly doesn’t push it. Alfie needs time to think and walking gives him that. And if said walk happens to take him down by the canal bridges and someone happens to take his fancy, then what of it? A good fuck with someone who _isn’t_ Thomas Shelby might be just what he needs to get the man out of his head. Two can play that game. So he waits until it’s good and dark before leaving — his hat and kippa remaining on the coat stand in the office because there is no need to draw unnecessary attention — and he heads down to the canal.

It’s a long time since he’s been this reckless. A very long time. But then again, it’s a long time since he’s been this fucking riled up and shaken too. He wishes it was easier to get Tommy out of his head but, well, it’s just not, is it? This should do it though, finish things once and for all. He’s slightly nervy when he spots the telltale smattering of younger men loitering by the waterside, most of them dead-eyed, skinny and smoking nonchalantly. The lads down here don’t know who Alfie Solomons is, and even if they did they’d know better than to tell anyone. Unless they wanted to end up with a slit throat. He passes the first few boys who seem too eager with their "evening sirs," and, "looking for some fun?" comments and picks the oldest and least pathetic looking lad he can find under the bridge. He has a nice face, dark skin, dark eyes…nothing like Tommy. He looks strong, he'll do. It briefly crosses his mind to pay him double to come back to the house, but that really is a stupid idea…he just needs to get this done, fuck someone else, release some tension and move the hell on. It might be pathetic, but at this moment it’s as solid a plan as he’s come up with and he’s going to see it through. Anger is an aphrodisiac, and there's plenty of that swilling around Alfie's guts tonight, he's just gonna take it out on someone else. Action is always better than introspection to his mind.

There's a certain thrill to it, he won't deny; the secrecy, the danger, the power. He fucks the lad, quick and hard, because if he stops to think about this too much there's a risk he won't go through with it at all (as it is, before it is even nearly over he is already asking himself why he honestly bothered). Because all he can think about is the way Tommy moves when you curl your fingers in his arse. The way he’ll pretend he doesn’t want it but end up begging Alfie for more. That innocent look on his beautiful face right before he throws his head back and fucking _moans_. The way Tommy reacts, the sounds he makes, they are Alfie’s undoing. The lad beneath him is a poor fucking substitute, just grunts and cusses, and no fucking resistance whatsoever. He finishes as fast as he can, without grace or finesse and feels better for precisely one minute, relieved more than anything, secure in the knowledge that he can come in someone else. Which is pathetic and he knows it.

He takes a slow walk home, tapping through the damp London night, as relief gives way quickly to dejection. Far from making him feel better, his little dalliance has only proved something that didn’t really need proving; no one compares to Tommy and he’s pretty sure no one ever will. He’s mulling over this depressing fact as he approaches his front gate, thinking how much better off he’d be if he’d never even met Thomas Shelby and didn’t now what he was missing. He stops short when he sees the dark shape in front of the door. He climbs the few steps slowly and pauses at the top to prod his cane at the lump of clothes on his doormat…once…twice. Nothing. He takes a deep breath, steps over the body and unlocks his door muttering, “fucking hell, Tommy.” He’s persistent, he’ll give him that. A persistently dysfunctional idiot.

Ishmael isn’t an option tonight and that means Alfie’s actually gonna have to deal with this himself, don't it? Unless he wants to call Olly, which he really doesn't at this hour. Might involve explaining where he himself has been up until now. So instead he slaps Tommy’s face twice, hard, because a) he needs to know how conscious the man is and b) he fucking deserves it. When he gets barely more than a murmur in response Alfie realises he’s going to have to drag the man inside. How much has he drunk this time? He can’t stay out here, someone is going to notice and start asking questions, so Alfie unlocks the door before he crouches down, squatting on his heels and grabs ahold of the collar of that large black coat, pulling as hard as he can. Tommy is like a dead weight, and instead of crossing the threshold, the coat just slips off him, leaving him pathetically splayed across the doorstep, half in, half out. _Shit_. What is wrong with him? His limbs look all wrong and as Alfie grabs him under the arms and heaves him inside he knocks his head on the step. Well, can’t be helped… if he’s gonna turn up uninvited at all hours in a total fucking mess he’s gonna get banged up a bit, ain't he?

Once Alfie’s pulled him in far enough to shut the front door behind them, he stops to assess the man on his floor. It’s fucking pathetic is what it is; Tommy is now sprawled on his back, head lolling to one side. Alfie uses one foot to nudge him, checking again for any reaction, and can’t resist giving a decent kick to his ribs whilst he’s at it. Bastard. Alfie shouldn't care, he really fucking shouldn’t, but he finds himself leaning down to loosen Tommy’s collar and check his pulse. It’s slow…shallow…come to think of it he can’t smell any whisky on him either. And then it comes back to him, the Oddfellow's comment about opium. He doesn't know for sure that opium is something Tommy does, but then again, it really wouldn't surprise him. He rolls Tommy onto his side and makes sure his airway is clear, then he leaves him, and heads upstairs to bed. What else can he do? He spends a long time washing up, suddenly wanting all trace of that lad gone, and he doesn’t look in the mirror when he’s finished, just takes himself to bed and tries to blank his mind completely. Fucking, _fucking_ hell.

———

Alfie doesn't sleep well. Despite himself he worries about Tommy on and off all night, until at 5am he simply can’t lie there anymore and has to go and check on him. He half expects to find the hallway empty and Tommy gone, and can’t quite work out whether that would make him relieved or…something else. But the sight that greets him at the bottom of his stairs is far more depressing: Tommy is curled into a ball, groaning quietly and absolutely drenched in sweat, his hair is soaked with it. Alfie holds onto the newel post at the bottom of his stairs and just stares at him for a long time. He’s alive at least. That's something. Wouldn't want to be explaining that away with all those other Shelbys in hot pursuit. His mind wanders from how Tommy got here in this state, to the rent boy he really wishes he hadn’t fucked last night, to what the bloody hell is in that _parcel_. It might not be a logical sequence of thoughts or concerns, but he’s not feeling hugely sympathetic and right now he wants to open that parcel - he feels rather on the back foot not knowing what’s in it, what with its sender currently incapacitated on his floor. And so he steps over the writhing figure, goes to the dresser and rips open the brown paper, revealing the long, brown leather handle. He’s no equestrian, but he knows a horse whip when he sees one. He pulls the rest of it out, together with the note attached to it, which he reads…

_Dear Alfie,_

_I know you hate me right now, but I promise you I hate myself more._

_I can’t explain why I did what I did, just that I was sad and weak and scared._

_You can make me pay. Just make me yours again._

_T.S._

He looks from the braided leather crop in his hand to Tommy and back again.What the _fuck_? It’s like a small piece of puzzle fitting into place. That’s what Tommy’s doing. He’s making himself pay. Alfie’s emotions spin from anger to lust to pity in the space of the thirty seconds it takes him to digest the letter. He’s just standing with it in one hand, staring at the very sorry figure on his hallway floor, wondering what the hell he is supposed to do. By rights he should beat the living shit out of him right now for getting himself into this state. He drops the crop to the floor with a loud clatter before his hand can catch up with that impulse and takes a deep grounding breath through his nostrils.

He stalks back over to where Tommy lays and looks up to the ceiling, as if seeking forgiveness from the gods of wrath for what he is about to do. He’s losing his touch…going soft with age…but he bends down and strokes a hand gently through the damp hair, whispering sadly, “Thomas, Thomas, Thomas.” He's so hot. _Fuck,_ he's fucking _melting_. Alfie rolls him onto his back without much difficulty and undoes the jacket and waistcoat with some urgency. His beautiful face looks grey beneath the beads of sweat that coat his forehead and upper lip. Alfie progresses to unbuttoning the sweat-damp shirt next, feeling immediately how it pulls out of the trousers far too easily – the man’s lost weight he really couldn’t afford to lose.He opens everything out, exposing Tommy’s flushed skin to the cool morning air, which is when he notices the bruises, littered across his overly pronounced ribs. Fuck, they're the bruises he left…but that must be what, nearly 3 weeks ago? He remembers the night well, his need to mark Tommy, to possess him. But being faced with the extent of what he’s done, in the cold light of day, well…it doesn’t make him feel good, he knows that much. There are so many bruises. And why do they look so fresh, so dark?

He wrestles one arm roughly out of the layers of clothing and holds it up by the wrist, examining the underside of Tommy’s arm. He remembers this too, sucking a chain of deep crimson into the soft skin from armpit to elbow. But the marks now go all the way down to his _wrist_. Alfie pulls up the other sleeve, it’s too difficult to take the shirt off entirely, but he sees clearly enough the matching bruises peaking out beneath the opposite cuff. He drops his head for a moment before gripping both wrists and squeezing them, hard.

“Tommy, what the fuck is going on?” he asks, “these bruises?”

Tommy tries to open his eyes, his lashes flutter, but the eyeballs tilt back hopelessly.

“Tommy, what have you taken? What have you done?” Alfie asks urgently.

“Yours,” is all Tommy slurs incoherently.

Alfie’s heart constricts alarmingly and he sinks painfully to his knees, resting right beside Tommy on the wooden floor. “Fucking hell,” he sighs. He strokes one hand over Tommy’s torso, gliding his thumb over each rib and stroking lightly over each bruise. His hand comes away slick with sweat and he can feel the heat radiating beneath his palm. He needs a minute to straighten his thoughts.

If this is opium then Alfie is pretty ill-equipped to deal with it. He knows withdrawal is unpleasant but he’s no idea how much Tommy has taken, or for how long. He checks the pulse again and that definitely doesn’t feel good. His emotions are all over the place but he does not want the man to die on his floor. Looks like they’re both in for a long day.

“Right, come on,” he says, heaving himself to his feet and setting his mind on getting Tommy into the living room. Dragging is the only way, as he’s virtually unconscious and apparently incapable of moving himself. It’s not much different to lugging a dead body really, not that Alfie does much of that himself these days, thankfully. Still, he hasn’t completely lost the ability and whilst it isn’t graceful, he does succeed in getting Tommy onto the sofa, with a fair bit of cursing along the way.He pulls back Tommy’s eyelids and the pupils are so dilated there’s almost no blue at all.

“Yeah, well done Tommy. You obliterated pretty much everything eh?” he mumbles. “Even your lovely blue eyes. You on another planet, mate? Hope it's better than this one,” he tuts. He can’t help but stroke Tommy's hair again, pat his cheek. Plenty of time for anger again later, he still harbours enough of that, but right now he just wants to get him through this. He can feel the tremors beneath Tommy’s skin, no doubt some sort of withdrawal kicking in. He positions him on his side again, removes the rest of the shirt as well as his shoes and socks and stuffs a cushion crudely under his head. Then he leans down and places a series of soft kisses to his chest, lingering over each bruise. He’s really not proud of how they look…maybe he pushed Tommy too far? He allows himself to rest his forehead against the bony ribcage for a moment, feeling the fluttering heartbeat through his skin. If only it were easier to hate him.

Tommy lies on that sofa for most of the morning. Alfie pulls himself away, forces himself to sit and work at his desk in the corner of the room and tries very hard to ignore the groaning and the shaking. There are occasional spasms too, which are alarming to start with, causing Alfie to jump up and hover over the man, grip his shoulders, shush him. But hell, Tommy did this to himself, so there’s not a whole lot more Alfie can do and after a while, he just leaves him to it. Time seems to go slowly, and he knows that Tommy should probably drink something, but he's virtually comatose and there's little Alfie can do about that. Around lunchtime he opens his eyes. Alfie senses the shift in energy and looks up, lifting his head from the paperwork and peering over the glasses perched on his nose.

“Haven’t fuckin’ died over there then,” he says in a cold voice, that masks the relief he actually feels.

Tommy doesn’t answer, just stares straight ahead for a minute or two, shuddering gently. But then suddenly he flicks to agitated, pushing himself up and looking around the room frantically. He glances over to the desk briefly, but then drops his eyes straight back to the floor, avoiding eye contact, looking wary. It takes Alfie by surprise when Tommy stumbles quickly out of the room and disappears into the hall – and when he hears the front door open a few seconds later he’s up and after him like a shot. The next thing he knows, he’s pulling the crazy fucker off the front doorstep, where he’s standing barefoot, topless and shaking like a leaf. _For fucks sake, Tommy_ , at least by some miracle there are no neighbours outside to witness it...a bruised, half-naked man on his front step would take some explaining. He drags Tommy back in and slams the front door, bolting it as well, before letting impulse win out and grabbing him into a tight hug against his chest – partly because he wants to stop him doing anything else stupid and partly, well, because he just wants to hold onto him.

“Where you going, mate?” he asks. “What the fuck am I supposed to do with you?” _Stupid fucking idiot._ They stand like that, in Alfie’s hallway, whilst Tommy trembles and Alfie sighs into his shoulder.

Alfie breaks the hug after a couple of minutes to rub a hand through his beard and ponder what to do. He finds his own legs are shaky, it’s that inscrutable mix of fear and fury that vulnerable Tommy seems to be uniquely capable of arousing in him. Tommy walks silently past him and up the stairs, disappearing into the bathroom and locking the door behind him.Right, well, that’s him hiding again. _Fucking hell…_

Alfie turns on his heel and picks up Tommy’s strewn clothes as he heads back to the living room. He folds them neatly and lays them over the back of the sofa, then returns to his desk, because there’s not much else he can do, right? Tommy’ll come down when he’s good and ready, and not before, Alfie knows that much. He makes himself some lunch and eats it at the kitchen table, chewing over the last few weeks in silence. What he really can’t forgive is how he let himself _hope_ …let himself believe that Tommy was something more. Because he’s been there to pick up the pieces when Tommy has gone to shit…which for one reason or another seems to be relatively often…and he’s let himself believe that that meant something...that Tommy has opened up to him in return. But now that he analyses it, all that Tommy really does is takes the comfort Alfie gives, takes the fucking too, and then closes himself off. He’s never really opened up to Alfie…about the nightmares, about Grace, about how he feels. About _anything_ really. 

He’s clearly in a bad way now, that much is plain to see. Whiskey and cigarettes are one thing, but _opium_? That’s a whole different ball game and a fucking _dangerous_ one too with vultures like Section D swirling round. But it doesn’t change the facts does it? Tommy still told Alfie he was _his_ then fucked that Russian bitch anyway. And Alfie still hates him for it. At least he _wants_ to hate him for it. That’s almost the same thing, innit?

He goes back to his desk, makes several phone calls and then tries very hard to concentrate on the books, filling his brain with transactions and numbers and reality. Simple. Hard facts. No emotions. The distraction is at least partly successful because he doesn’t notice Tommy open the living room door several hours later and walk hesitantly over to the desk. It’s the throat clearing that rouses him, and when he looks up into those sad blue eyes, his heart flips. Tommy’s clearly showered but looks like absolute shit nonetheless. His trousers hang loosely from his hips, his eye sockets look like someone hollowed them out with a spoon and the bruises…the bruises stand out like livid lesions against the too pale skin.

Alfie is about to say something when Tommy moves towards him and places the riding crop upon the desk, right on top of Alfie’s ledgers. “Make me yours,” he rasps, so quiet it’s barely there. Alfie closes his eyes and grips the edge of his desk with both hands, stopping himself from doing anything more dangerous with them. There is nothing more he’d like than to bend Tommy over this desk right now and make him fucking pay. Fuck, the man clearly knows how to press his buttons. They clearly know how to press each _others_ ’ buttons. But someone has to have a shred of sense around here, and right now that ain't gonna be Tommy.

“When’s the last time you ate something, hmm?” Alfie asks, opening his eyes again to stare Tommy down.

Tommy furrows his brow and pulls a face that says _what the fuck_ , without actually saying anything.

“Drank something?”Alfie continues, “and whiskey doesn’t count.”

Tommy shrugs.

“How many times you thrown up today, eh?” Alfie asks, voice rising now.

Tommy swallows and looks at his feet. “M’ fucking fine,” he growls, voice hoarse.

“I could fuckin’ _hear_ you up there,” Alfie yells, rising to his feet, pointing at the ceiling above him. “And you’re still _shaking_ , Thomas!”

With that he rounds the desk, picking up the crop as he moves to stand right in front of Tommy. He holds the crop up to his face, vibrating slightly with rage. “This what you want yeah?”

“Just fucking do it,” Tommy spits, “make me pay, I can take it."

"Oh, you can take it can you?" Alfie shudders, "don't think you know how angry I am, mate."

"Just make me yours again. Alfie. I’m so fuckin’ sorry. I just…I just…” and he can’t finish the sentence, can’t get the words out because his voice is breaking, tears are welling in his eyes, threatening to fall.

Alfie raises one hand to his cheek, thumbing away the wetness before it spills over. His voice is low, deceptively soft…

“Oh I’ll make you pay alright, Thomas. You wanna cry love? I’ll make you fuckin’ _weep_.” 

Tommy’s head flips up at that and he looks Alfie straight in the eye. There’s fear there, undoubtedly, but not just fear. There’s curiosity too, _desire_ , and fuck if it doesn’t go straight to Alfie’s trousers. The unholy images going through his head right now will send him straight to the depths of hell, of that he has no doubt. But he can't do this now. He isn't in control. He grunts softly as he reaches down for Tommy’s wrist and pulls it up, straightening the arm so that they are both looking at the bruises that climb from wrist to armpit.

“And what about these, hmm? You do this?” he asks, because the alternative is that _she_ did, and he doesn’t want to think about that.

“Yes,” Tommy answers.

“No one else marks you, right?” Alfie says slowly, glaring intently at him.

“Didn’t want ‘em to fade.”

“No one, else, you hear me?” Alfie repeats, louder, shaking the arm.

Tommy nods once.

“And these…” Alfie continues, prodding at the bruises on his chest, pressing the pad of his thumb into one until Tommy hisses. “Leave them the _fuck_ alone. Let 'em heal.”

Tommy nods again, wide-eyed.

There are so many questions Alfie wants answered. So many assurances he needs. But right now, the man before him is in no fit state. “You wanna be mine eh?”

“Yes,” Tommy gasps, taking a step towards him.

“Then go home Thomas. Eat. Drink tea. See your boy.”

“No, Alfie, please…”

Alfie grabs his face in one hand, squeezing his cheeks hard against his teeth, “and stay off that fucking filth. Come back here in three days when you’re good and strong. Then you’ll get what’s coming to you. I ain’t giving it to you in this state and that’s final.” He lets go of Tommy's face roughly.

Tommy swallows hard and pauses, before he turns to find his clothes, folded where Alfie left them. He dresses slowly, carefully, like every movement is an effort. When he’s finished, Alfie appears with a glass of water and a plate of bread and cheese. “Sunday,” he says, holding the glass up and watching as Tommy drinks it.

“Sunday,” Tommy repeats quietly. He takes a piece of bread from the plate and heads out of the room with it. “I’m sorry, Alfie,” he says as he stands by the front door, one hand on the lever.

“Yeah, well,” Alfie mumbles, “you will be. And you can bring me a new cane while you’re at it. Last one broke ‘cause of you.”

Tommy raises an eyebrow at that and opens the door, letting the early evening sun spill onto the wooden floor.

“Go on, go,” Alfie mumbles, but there’s softness in his voice too, relief, so he adds a harsh, “fuck off,” for good measure. He'd really rather Tommy stayed here till he looked a bit more capable, but he isn't gonna nursemaid him again now. And he needs to calm the fuck down before Sunday. He has a feeling it's going to be the longest three days of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, it's turned into a 3 chapter piece because there was just too much angst to get over first and i'm incapable of writing anything short. Let me know what you think and I'll follow up with part 3 soon!


	3. Guilt: part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfie reaches out for the freckled shoulders, clasping them in warm hands – up close the look of trepidation in Tommy’s eyes is plain to see. He’s quick to hide it, but not quick enough, and Alfie feels a sudden urge to soothe him, which is a strange impulse really, given they both know Alfie is going to whip the living daylights out of him shortly, but it is what it is. And here they both are.

Sunday is a long time coming. Alfie has had plenty of time to stew on the fact that he swore he would never let Thomas Shelby into his house – or his heart – again. He has sat at his desk and asked himself what _fucking reason_ he could possibly have for giving the disloyal bastard another chance. He has laid in his bed and contemplated just why he is so fucking _weak._ He has spent entire evenings questioning his principles, his sanity, his decision to give this one fucked up individual another chance when he has sent so many others to their graves for far lesser betrayals. And the one answer he has come up with, after days of almost uninterrupted brooding, is entirely nonsensical and illogical and just plain _ridiculous_ in its inadequacy. He wants the man. He just fucking _wants_ him. Like he has never wanted anything else in his life.

He wants his petulant manners and posh suits and sharp retorts; his ambition and bravery and stupidity. He wants all of the things that make Thomas Shelby so feared, so revered, so powerful. But more than that, he wants the bits that no one else sees…the vulnerability, the demons, the need, the despair and self-loathing that underpins the public persona. He wants to be the one that makes Tommy feel _good_ , makes him feel _whole_.

It’s unsatisfactory and selfish and downright bloody dangerous, but Alfie Solomons hasn’t wanted many things in his life, and he is not giving Tommy up. That much he has decided. He’s tried to hate him, really fucking tried, and yet it hasn’t worked – it's actually probably impossible at this point in time, despite Tommy's best efforts. Alfie has spat at him, locked him out, kicked him, had him dragged away, and yet the bloody idiot has _still_ come back. And if the man can't help himself then who is Alfie to argue? Ultimately, he has let him. But he has also let Tommy stray. Once. And he won’t let that happen again, because there is a line even Thomas Shelby can't cross. If there’s one thing Alfie plans to do tonight, it’s to deliver that message…loud and fuckin' clear, because he is still angry and he will not be taken for weak. 

–––

The Tommy who knocks on his door at six o’clock that evening is a different man from the one he sent home three days earlier. He looks strong, in control. He is dressed immaculately in a dark grey three-piece; his shoulders are square, his chin is up…still too thin, but undoubtedly better. And he’s here. On Alfie’s doorstep. Committed. Anticipation flutters in Alfie's throat.

“Thought you’d never turn up,” Alfie says brusquely, hoping his cool tone hides the fact his heart is hammering in his chest like an actual battering ram.

“Here to settle a debt, Alfie,” Tommy says nonchalantly, with a slight shrug, “and I always pay.”

Alfie breathes deeply, in…out once, before stepping aside, letting Tommy walk in and past him as he locks and bolts the door. When he turns back to face Tommy, they are standing there, too close, anticipation thick in the air. It feels like time has actually paused; he can see motes of dust floating in slow motion within the beam of yellow evening light that pierces through the glazed door panel. He watches Tommy remove his cap, one hand stretching up slowly to straighten his hair, and he reaches up on impulse, grabs the wrist firmly in mid air and asks, 

“You sure you want this, hmmm?” He is staring watchfully into Tommy’s eyes, reading the reactions, because he needs to make this clear, can’t afford any misunderstandings. “Cause if we go upstairs, Tommy, I _am_ gonna make you pay. Have no doubt about that, love.”

Tommy just holds his gaze, the arm caught in midair straining against Alfie’s firm grip as he tries to bring it down to his side and finds he can’t. It's a small display of power, but one Alfie thinks worth making.

“And then I’m yours?” Tommy says softly, half statement, half question, stepping just slightly closer to Alfie.

“All mine,” Alfie confirms, slowly releasing his arm.

Tommy swallows, hard, and hangs his cap on the coat-stand, then reaches for the banister and starts walking up the stairs, slow and sure, without a backward glance. Well, he had his chance, and that’s his answer…Alfie can only oblige.

–––

He watches Tommy visibly straighten and inhale deeply when he enters the bedroom. It’s warm, the fire is lit and Alfie has moved his large wooden desk into the middle of the room, positioning it at the foot of the bed; there is enough room to walk around it on all sides. The riding crop, Tommy’s riding crop, lies innocently on top of the bedsheets, waiting. Tommy’s eyes have landed on it and seem fixed there, his earlier confidence visibly slipping.

“Nice suit,” Alfie says, shutting the bedroom door and closing the distance between them. He moves to stand behind Tommy and runs his hands over the jacket, smoothing the fabric over his shoulders. “Expensive, I’ll bet,” he continues, letting his eyes wander appreciatively over the man beneath. No point in delaying the inevitable though, so he shifts his voice down a gear and growls, “now take it off.”

He leaves Tommy to comply, walks over to the fire, leaning down to jostle the embers with a poker and throw in another log. When he turns back round Tommy is carefully folding each item of clothing and placing it over the back of a chair. He’s looking down, concentrating with unusual precision on cufflinks and buttons, not talking, not looking upwards. He doesn’t lift his gaze again until he is completely naked. Alfie takes in the scene from across the room, almost unable to believe that he has the man in his bedroom at all; he can’t help but walk towards him. It’s not how he planned it, thought he'd keep things more distant, but he wants his hands on that skin, it’s been too long.

So he reaches out for the freckled shoulders, clasping them in warm hands – up close the look of trepidation in Tommy’s eyes is plain to see. He’s quick to hide it, but not quick enough, and Alfie feels a sudden urge to soothe him, which is a strange impulse really, given they both know Alfie is going to whip the living daylights out of him shortly. But it is what it is. And here they both are.

Even so, the moment feels fragile, and Alfie doesn’t know how to make it better. Tommy is looking at him through his lashes, head slightly bowed, but he hasn’t reached out to return Alfie’s touch, it’s almost as though he’s not sure he should. So Alfie tilts his chin down slightly, tips his weight forward and presses his forehead to Tommy’s, it’s a small gesture, intimate, enough to say _I’ve got you_ without saying anything at all. He feels Tommy lean into it, feels his shoulders soften and his breath hitch, and yeah…this was the right decision.

“Right then,” he says after a few moments, straightening up and pulling away, “over the desk then.” He nods at the solid piece of furniture and picks up a pillow from the bed, placing it at one end, over the edge. He pats it with his hand in a gesture that indicates, somewhat patronisingly probably, where he wants Tommy to be. Tommy moves hesitantly towards it, until he’s standing with the fronts of his thighs pressed against the desk.

“You know the next bit Tommy,” Alfie hums, low and steady, because now they're really getting down to it, and Tommy didn't like this last time, right? “Bend the fuck over.”

Tommy does as he’s told, looking down in surprise at the pillow Alfie has placed at the end. Alfie just watches, doesn’t say anything at all, because quite honestly the sight of Thomas Shelby naked over his desk is quite enough to deal with at the moment. He steps to the side, not quite happy, because he wants this to be perfect, wants nothing to distract them from what’s about to happen. He taps Tommy’s arse with the crop and orders him up again, ignoring the frustrated huff that elicits. He grabs another pillow, a fatter one this time, and places it on top of the other, fussing somewhat with the position. 

“Just fucking get on with it, eh?” Tommy says, his voice gravelly and impatient.

“Don’t worry Thomas, gonna get what you need aren’t you?” Alfie replies. “Now back down you go. Yeah, that’s better,” he hums, mostly to himself, lost in the appreciation of Tommy’s arse, now curved more invitingly upward, his legs stretched out, toes just reaching the floor. 

“Hands stay flat here” he says, tapping the tip of the crop on either side of where Tommy’s head now lays on the desk, “gonna trust you to keep them right there.” He watches as Tommy slowly spreads his fingers out flat on the leather top.

–––

He can see the shift in Tommy’s demeanour, he’s quiet, very quiet, breaths barely visible. And that’s good isn't it? A bit of humility. ‘Cause this situation deserves some fucking gravitas. It's not every day Alfie Solomons just lets someone get away with an infraction like this, and if Tommy thinks this is gonna be easy, just because it was his idea, then he had better think again.

Alfie reaches down, taking one of two leather belts from the floor in his hand. He loops it behind the left desk leg and then around Tommy’s left thigh, pulling his leg outward to meet the wood and securing it with the buckle. He can sense Tommy’s unease at the loss of control, the unexpected prostration, and it makes Alfie feel hot, turned on, fucking _serious_. He tightens the buckle enough so that Tommy definitely can’t move, but not so much that it pinches, then shifts to fasten the right thigh to the right side of the desk in exactly the same way. It leaves Tommy’s pale arse pleasingly spread and his breathing faltering. Not just Tommy's breathing either, because _fuck_ , he’s a sight to behold. Alfie rubs one hand over the small of Tommy’s back, pressing down so that his arse rises and watching as he flexes his thigh muscles, testing the restraint.

“Oh don’t worry, you ain’t going anywhere,” he coos, “ex-military those belts. And you look so pretty spread out for me like that.”He can’t help but bend down and place a soft kiss to one arse cheek, which gets a shiver of reaction from Tommy and a small groan. 

“Hmmmm. Still think this is a good idea, Tommy? Feeling a bit more real now, isn’t it?” Because _fucking hell_ it's feeling real to Alfie.

He picks up the riding crop and traces it gently over Tommy’s back, from his shoulder down to his arse and up again. “Tell me what you want then, Tommy.”

“Wanna be yours, Alfie,” he whispers after a short pause, eyes glazing.

“Mine. Is that right?” Alfie hums, as he trails the crop down the inside of each thigh, tapping the tip of it on his balls, where they are squeezed against the pillows.

“Yes,” Tommy says, louder this time, clearly. “Whatever you want, I’ll take it.”

“Oh I know you will,” he whispers, leaning over and running one hand through the dark hair, stroking it gently away from his face. He looks down at Tommy, lying wide-eyed and guileless, spread out and tied down, completely at Alfie’s mercy. He has willingly put himself in this position, like the brave, crazy fucker he is, and it makes Alfie's insides feel like _lava_. There's so much trust here, written on Tommy's face, and that's a gift that can't be bought right there, isn't it? He concentrates on readying himself, pushing his shirt sleeves up out of the way, breathing slowly, staying calm.

There's no turning back now, this is the way they have agreed to resolve this and it seems as good as any. They're violent men and it's a violent solution. He touches the tip of the crop to the underside of Tommy’s chin and leans in, says very quietly, “I am gonna fuck you up, darling. I hope you’re ready.”

He steps back and watches the sharp intake of breath, the cloud of trepidation spread across Tommy’s face, the blush creep down his throat. He allows his eyes to roam over the firm muscles and tight arse, and revels in the silence that stretches between them, well aware that it’s adding to the tension. Neither of them moves until Tommy flexes his legs, testing again, causing the leather of the belts to squeak quietly against the wood.

“So impatient, Thomas,” Alfie mumbles, before he takes the riding crop and draws it over Tommy’s arse cheeks very gently, trailing a pattern so lightly it is barely touching. Which is what makes the first hard crack of leather on skin such a shock. _Yeah,_ thinks Alfie _, you wanna be sorry Tommy, I’ll make you sorry._ He doesn’t hold back, just raises the crop again and aims another swipe, then another, and another. 

He lets his mind wander, lets himself picture Tommy fucking that woman, that beautiful, dangerous Russian, and he feels the anger coil in his belly. Because yeah, he’s still fucking angry. Not out of control, like when he first found out, but riled enough to want a reaction. To want Tommy to _pay_. The thought of her hands on his beautiful white skin spurs him on.

It’s the eight or tenth strike that causes Tommy’s breath to catch in his chest and Alfie can’t help but relish the sound. He strikes him again and again, pausing just long enough each time to watch the pale skin turn bright red in angry stripes. He doesn’t stop until the marks go from the top of Tommy’s arse cheeks all the way down to his upper thighs and he is sweating with exertion. Only then does he pause to admire the view – Tommy’s forehead pressed firmly into the desk and his arse layered with hot, angry marks…weals in places. He’s gonna be able to feel those for days…every time he fucking sits down. The thought makes Alfie’s cock jump as he waits for his own breathing to settle.

Tommy shudders at the respite, lets out a gravelly groan.Alfie bends down to stroke his hair again. “Look at me,” he says, pullingTommy’s chin round to face him. He’s drawing in shaky breaths, jaw clenched tight, he’s taking it, but he looks shocked, eyes hard and…what…what is that...indignant? He’s fucking _angry_ Alfie realises with a twitch. _Thomas Shelby_ is fucking _angry_ about this.

“What’s wrong Tommy, don’t like it?” he asks. Tommy thins his lips and snorts, glaring silently at Alfie. He asked Alfie Solomons to fucking whip him, and now he’s _angry_ with the result? _Oh no, no._ He does _not_ have that right to be the angry one here. Alfie is lit up.

“Why’d you fuckin’ do it, Tommy?” he asks, “why’d you fuck her?” Because suddenly that question is bloody important and the answer, Alfie realises, isn’t actually obvious. Of course it isn’t. Because this is Tommy Shelby and absolutely _nothing_ is obvious. Ever. Tommy is still glaring at him, breathing hard and fucking _glaring_. He stays silent.

“You defiant fucker,” Alfie breathes as he steps back and starts in again. This time he aims for the inner thighs, whipping livid marks that stray dangerously close to his balls, changing the pace, giving no rhythm and not relenting for maybe 20, 25 strokes. No one’s counting. Tommy pants hard, has turned his forehead into the desk again, and when Alfie pauses again he wants a fucking answer.

“Why did you do it Tommy?” he repeats, his voice too reasonable. “If you wanted to be mine, why did you fuck _her_?” He runs his nails over Tommy’s arse and scrapes none-too-softly at the raised patches of skin. That gets a hiss from Tommy’s lips, but still no answer. He tuts sadly, then taps the crop at the soft skin either side of Tommy’s arsehole, so beautifully spread open in his current position. “You’re gonna answer me Tommy,” he hums, “might as well save yourself the pain, eh?”

“What do you care?” Tommy rasps at that, he still sounds defiant but his legs are flexing, struggling against the bonds, giving him away, yeah, he's afraid.

Alfie sucks air in over his teeth in a “ _well, I did warn you”_ kind of way and flicks the crop expertly at that exposed skin, adding multiple strikes in quick succession. It wrests the first actual cry from Tommy’s mouth, a panicked, hurt sound that is like fuel to Alfie’s fire and _oh fuck he wants to hear him make that noise again_. He works on drawing that same sound from him repeatedly over the next sixty seconds, then rests a moment, because he needs to stay in control here.

“Because I was scared,” Tommy gasps, after a pause, hands clenching and releasing on the desk, “fuckin scared.”

“Scared... right,” Alfie repeats calmly, as though that makes perfect sense. Although it clearly fucking _doesn’t_. He swats the same spot again, which seems to prompt Tommy to continue.

“Scared of how much I wanted you,” he adds. _Like that makes it so much clearer._

“You fuckin _bit_ me Alfie,” he tremors, _“_ you marked me. It freaked me out. So I fucked it up. Because I could. Because it’s what I do.” 

Alfie drops the crop on the floor, kneels down behind Tommy and grips each cheek roughly in his hands. He splays them even wider and then licks a wet line up the crease of his arse. Again, not really in the plan, but that’s just about the most words Tommy has ever given him in relation to his feelings. Ever. It deserves a small reward, so he does it again, starting at his balls and running wetly all the way up, circling his hole...teasing at it with his tongue. Tommy whimpers and strains. “I fucked it up because I don’t deserve you, Alfie.”

“Yeah, you do love,” Alfie murmurs, rasping out between licks, “you’re a fuckin’ idiot though…a beautiful… fucking…idiot.” And that’s it, Tommy’s gone, tipped over the edge and dissolved into almost silent tears.

“Stay with me Tommy,” Alfie hums as he pushes himself up, because as nice as this is, he hasn’t finished yet. And this is proving quite an effective way to get Tommy to talk, afterall. He strokes Tommy’s back with one hand – slow and soothing, murmuring praise, telling him how well he’s doing – whilst he reaches into his desk drawer with the other, retrieves a bottle of oil and places it in front of Tommy’s face. It’s deliberately misleading, but it gives Alfie the element of surprise, because if he thinks that's all the punishment he's getting for a whole fucking night with that bitch and everything that's come after, then he is sorely mistaken. Sorely being the exact point of this.

He pulls a thin cane from the drawer, knowing Tommy can’t see the new implement, and proceeds to whip a perfect welt across the crease of his arse cheeks.There is absolutely no doubt he feels it.The yelp that escapes his throat only fuels Alfie’s desire, he knows full well this hurts far more than the crop, but it doesn’t deter him. Very quickly the yelps turn into shrieks – Tommy reaching up to grip the top of the desk and making no attempt to stifle the hurt sounds that escape with every heavy stroke that Alfie delivers. 

“ _This_ ,” Alfie growls, pausing to shake the cane in front of Tommy’s face, “ _this_ is for your fucked up coping mechanisms, mate.” He brings it down again. “Could have got yourself _killed_ ,” he snarls, “whisky, is bad enough, quantities you drink it in. But fucking _opium_ , Tommy. Why d'you get yourself in that state, eh?”

Tommy doesn’t wait to answer this time, the cane clearly a more effective encouragement than the crop, “I need you,” he snivels, “can’t sleep without you.”

Alfie knew that already, if he really thinks about it, but to hear Tommy acknowledge it is something else...something quietly momentous. Yeah, Alfie could learn to rather like this method of communication.

“If I _ever_ ,” he carries on, punctuating each phrase with a full-force thrash, “catch you on _opium…again_ …you had _better_ be _prepared_ not to sit _down_ for a _month_.”

–––

When he stops this time, Tommy’s breaths are heaving, his chest rising and falling hard against the desk, tears flowing freely. Alfie has administered enough beatings in his life to know what a man looks like when he's in pain. But when he grasps Tommy's chin to look directly into his eyes he is perplexed, intrigued even, because yes, he's clearly hurting, but his gaze is open...needy...filled with awe. He doesn’t look fully there, Alfie realises, it's like he’s dazed or stupefied, high as a fucking kite. That is interesting, Alfie hums, trust Tommy Shelby to get off on the suffering, eh? It does nothing to quell his instincts, nothing to move him to sympathy. He steps back into position.

Alfie knows how much the cane hurts, remembers it from school, and he is applying it with some force because he wants Tommy to get what he's fucking well asked for, wants to beat him till he doesn't know what day of the fucking week it is...and if it keeps that look on his face while he's doing it then, well, that is something special. Not once does Tommy say _no_ , or ask him to _stop_ , even as the last half dozen strokes elicit full on screams - sounds he’s not even trying to hide. It’s fucking _dangerous_ Alfie realises, because it is _satisfying_ , it is his _due_ , but at the same time he is so fucking turned on by it that he wants to keep going, to see how far he can _push_ Tommy. But the answer is always too far...because he's a stupid, stubborn bastard. And he can see the way Tommy’s legs are trembling now, his body’s involuntary reaction giving away what Tommy will never admit – that he's close to the limit - quite possibly over it. His hands are gripping the top of the desk so tightly his knuckles have turned white.After a long pause, Alfie delivers one final, perfectly aimed blow, before dropping the cane to the floor. Tommy’s backside is a mess of welts, his face is soaked with tears and his chest is heaving with sobs, like he has abandoned all self-control, all shame. “You look fucking beautiful,” Alfie murmurs, which may come out as unsympathetic but is just a fact.

He just watches for a few moments, taking in the sight of Tommy, pliant and punished in _his_ bedroom, on _his_ desk. His own breath is shaking as he runs his hands up Tommy’s sides, soothing him, shushing him, because despite the fact that Alfie has stopped, Tommy isn’t calming down any, seems lost entirely. “You’re mine, love. All mine,” he says, feeling Tommy falter at that. He reaches down and unbuckles one of the belts, watching Tommy’s shoulders slacken as his leg hangs loose. He folds the belt in half and considers slapping him with it, but stops himself, laying it by Tommy’s right hand instead. He really looks like he’s taken enough. Too much maybe. 

If Alfie was a better man he'd leave it at that. But he's not. He is jealous and possessive and Tommy is here, like this, because _he_ wanted it, because he wanted _Alfie_. Alfie undoes his trousers and reaches for the oil, slicking first his cock, then the crease of Tommy’s arse, before pushing one thumb inside, sliding it down to the last knuckle. He holds it there a moment, then leans down to place a gentle kiss on the small of Tommy’s back. He peppers kisses and licks over each cheek, feeling the heat that radiates from them.

“Gonna take what’s mine, love,” he breathes, barely holding himself together because that hole feels so hot, so tight. Tommy sucks air through his teeth and clenches hard around him, groans into the desk. And really, Alfie knows he should be gentle, Tommy is still whimpering, still trembling from the thrashing, but he wants to take what’s his, wants Tommy to feel it, wants to wipe every memory of that woman from his mind. So he slides his other hand over and squeezes one bruised cheek before pushing his other thumb in to the hot, tight heat. It’s a lot, after so long, so Alfie holds still again, closes his eyes and settles for just pinning Tommy to the table with those two crooked thumbs. Tommy groans and stills beneath him, back rigid, like he’s terrified to fucking move. And _good_ that’s _exactly_ how Alfie wants him.

Slowly, and very carefully, Alfie starts to stretch him, pulls his thumbs apart and slides them around his opening. “Think you can take me Tommy, just like this, after all these weeks?” he asks. Tommy doesn’t answer, doesn’t look like he can, his face is turned down and his shoulders are flexing. “Hmmm, burns a bit, I bet,” Alfie hums, all mock sympathy, as he continues to move his thumbs, loosening the muscle. He takes his time, going slowly, his end goal very much in mind.

Beneath him Tommy is panting, shallow breaths; he's sniffing too, tears apparently stalled by the overwhelming urge to stay absolutely still. He’s trembling with it, slowing his breaths and very obviously struggling. The small, scared sounds he's making in the otherwise silent room seem to echo louder than his previous screams.

“Opening up so nice for me,” “Alfie growls, voice thick with lust, although it's still not enough. He digs his fingernails into the hot welts on both cheeks and uses the distraction to widen the stretch even further, inhaling deeply at the anguished sound Tommy makes.

“Thing is, I want to forgive you Tommy. I really do,” he says, voice a steady, calm hum. “But I don’t want you to _forget._ ”

He lines his cock up, thumbs still in place, pulling Tommy apart and pinning him down with the same two digits.

“I won’t, I won’t,” Tommy whispers, and he's almost pleading, distress clear in his voice. Alfie is so fucking hard with anticipation at this point, he doesn’t know how he’s maintaining any control.

"No, you won't forget this, love," he says quietly. 

"I won't forget, no" Tommy repeats, whining out the last word.

"Whatever I want, that's what you said, isn't it, darling?"

There’s barely enough room, but Alfie pushes and pulls at the same time and it’s so fucking _tight_ as the head of his cock squeezes between his thumbs that Tommy howls, loud and desperate, banging his forehead against the desk several times. Alfie can barely hear anything over the blood pounding in his head, “you wanted to pay, eh?” he says through gritted teeth, “gonna make me stop Tommy?” 

“No,” Tommy cries, shaking his head, shuddering with strain, hands moving up and down the desk, searching for something, anything to grip on to, to help.

“No, you’re not, are you love?” Alfie pants, pushing further, until he is wedged, deep and impossibly tight, "trying so hard for me, aintcha?" He groans, pushing Tommy hard up against the desk and holding him there, perfectly still, until after a few long moments he is coming, suddenly and ferociously inside him. He resists the urge to thrust, barely moves at all, because he wants to fill him, not damage him. He is utterly overwhelmed, spent and exhausted and amazed at the man beneath him. He pulls out slowly, as carefully as he can, first his cock, then his thumbs and watches Tommy slump in relief, letting out a groan that sounds a lot like a sob.

Lust sated, Alfie is abruptly, maddeningly desperate to soothe Tommy, to hold him, to tell him he's fucking perfect. It's contrary and illogical, given what he's just put him through, but at the same time it's impossible to ignore. His desire to hug him and hold him is so strong he barely remembers to unbuckle the leg before moving swiftly around the desk to take hold of his upstretched arms and drag him off the desk, towards the bed. Tommy is so slick with sweat his body just slides over the leather, and he’s trying to get his legs beneath him, scrabbling frantically in Alfie’s direction, shouting at him, “you bastard...you fucking bastard," even as he throws his arms around his neck. And then Alfie pulls him onto the bed in one final, fierce movement, collapsing backward with Tommy on top of him, arms tight around his ribs.

––– 

“You fucking, fucking bastard,” Tommy repeats, through sobs that shake his entire body, which would have Alfie seriously worried if he weren’t simultaneously clinging onto him with an iron grip and trying to kiss him ferociously. After a couple of minutes Alfie digs his chin into Tommy’s shoulder, shushing him and stroking him, trying to absorb the tremoring energy emanating from the man.

He rolls over, tipping Tommy to one side, until they are lying face to face, Alfie gripping his head in two hands. “You beautiful, beautiful fucking mess, Tommy Shelby,” he sighs, staring right into his eyes – dark and wet, pupils still blown wide.He looks stunned, exhausted, limbs shaking and twitching with adrenaline, yet he is staring at Alfie like he is the centre of the known fucking universe. This man, who thinks he doesn't deserve Alfie...yet has gone so far to earn him back. Alfie himself feels overwrought, not for the first time he finds the weight of responsibility huge, isn't sure where to even start. Then again, there's always the obvious...

“You wanna come, love?” he asks, stroking Tommy's back, breathing him in. It's a ridiculous bloody question, or would usually be, but Tommy is so spaced out right now that he feels he should ask.

“Yes,” Tommy whispers, swallowing slowly.

Alfie reaches one hand up to Tommy’s throat, places it there gently, wrapping his fingers around just enough that he feels held. Then he licks his palm and grasps Tommy’s hardening cock, clasping it like it’s the most precious thing he’s ever held in his life…which come to think of it, it very well may be. All he can think is that the most important thing in the world right now, the one single reason for his being on this earth at all, is to make Tommy feel fucking _amazing_. He strokes the cock in his hand, striking up a perfect rhythm, mesmerised himself as he starts to draw whimpers of pleasure from the other man's lips. These...these are the sounds that fill Alfie's fantasies, his dreams; these are the mewls and moans he thought he'd lost for good. He strokes and squeezes and rubs at Tommy until he is groaning and keening in his hand, eyes half closed, mouth wide open. Alfie tells him how impressed he is, how much he's taken, how far he's let himself be pushed and how much he is _his._ Then he squeezes the hand round his neck until Tommy pales, writhing and tensing and shuddering desperately to his release, pushing himself into Alfie's hands, looking into his eyes, giving himself over without fear, without shame. Alfie just stares at him, own mouth hanging open, hand loosening around his throat, just burning that fucking beautiful image into his memory. 

They lay there afterwards, paused in situ, hands still in place – just looking at each other – until Tommy murmurs something Alfie really can't fathom. “She said I could fuck Grace," he rasps, then clears his throat. "Tatiana, I mean.” 

“You what?” Alfie says incredulously, hand reflexively tightening around Tommy's throat again at the mention of that woman's name.

“When she put her hands around my neck. She said I’d see her.”

Alfie swallows slowly, feels bile rising in his throat. It's a strange moment to pick for another confession… _what the fuck is he supposed to make of this? Why is Tommy even telling him?_

“And did you?” he asks, eventually, perplexed.

“No,” Tommy falters, eyes flitting downwards, hesitant for the first time since they got into this bed. “I saw you.”

Alfie feels his heart leap, relief and lust and longing mingling in his chest, tightening his whole body. He pulls Tommy in to him so hard it makes him gasp, murmurs into his hair, hardly daring to believe it's true, "that's cause you're fuckin' mine, innit?" 

"Bloody well better be after that," Tommy mumbles into his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for sticking with this, even though it turned into a bit of a marathon. Hope you enjoyed, please let me know!


	4. Guilt part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after, (Well, the middle of the night after really). Tommy is having major subdrop. Neither idiot realises that. They manage in their usual fucked-up way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I couldn't leave this one alone, so here is one final chapter. Written entirely on my phone, so please forgive any formatting errors. I'll fix them at some point!

  
He comes to slowly, unable to place where he is immediately. It's dark, no hint of colour in the blackness to tell him whether it's closer to evening or dawn. He has no idea how long he's been asleep either, which is disorienting, but not unusual in itself. He's got used to insufficient bouts of sleep over the past few weeks - usually fuelled by whiskey or opium - snatched wherever and whenever he's collapsed...at home or in Small Heath... even at the stables. This is different, he feels drugged, held under almost, like gravity is exerting undue force on him, pressing him down into the mattress. Alfie's bed he recalls, relief washing over him briefly.  
  
He is lying on his stomach, face turned down into the pillow, arms splayed out to either side, one leg stretched out straight, the other bent at a right angle. He's comfortable in a way that feels very transient, as though it is too good to last and will be snatched away at any moment. He's cold and his mouth is dry. Everything aches. He's reluctant to move at all, to bring this peaceful interlude to an end, but the night air is chill, the fire no more than embers in the grate, and so he reaches groggily for the blankets, hand blindly seeking some warmth to cover his shoulders.

The shift of sheets across his body shatters his repose, awakening nerve endings so raw that he gasps, sucking air in through his teeth. His arse throbs, welts burn like flaming ladder rungs up the backs of his thighs. He is reminded in an instant of the controlled brutality of the evening, of how he earned his place back here, in Alfie's bed.  
  
He is alone he realises, with an unnerving sense of dread. Alfie is nowhere to be seen, which shouldn't really matter of course, would never _normally_ matter, but it's like all of his emotions have been heightened and right now, in this current, sensitised state, it is enough to induce something close to panic. His brain snaps into overdrive and he feels desperately sad... shamed... alone. Memories of the previous night floor him momentarily, Alfie hitting him, over and over, so fucking hard...and yet he wants Alfie. Needs to hear his voice. Where the _fuck_ is he?  
  
He spots Alfie's shirt, discarded on the floor by the bed, and winces as he reaches out to grab it. He pulls it over his head, shifting himself upright and pushing his arms into the baggy sleeves. He needs a piss, so braces himself for the short walk to the bathroom...fuck he's sore. Bladder emptied, he pads slowly across the landing, pulling the shirt sleeves down over his hands and hugging his arms tight around his ribs against the cold. Everything feels difficult and uncomfortable but he can hear movement downstairs and he follows the sounds of shuffling footsteps and rustling, creeping down the wooden stairs, achingly aware of his body with every tentative step.  
  
He wants to go and wrap his arms around Alfie, to share his warmth, to be told everything is OK, but when he reaches the ground floor and catches sight of him through the kitchen doorway he stops, overcome by uncertainty. Why would the person who inflicted that pain want to hug him now? He sinks down onto the bottom step instead, feeling unworthy, it seems safer just to sit, to silently observe.  
  
The wooden stair is cool against the bruises he knows must be colouring already. He leans his head against the newel post and watches as Alfie mutters to himself and moves around the kitchen wearing nothing but his undershirt and trousers, braces hanging lankly by his sides, feet bare. How is he not cold? Tommy wonders, trying to hold himself back from shivering. He feels so tired, unsure of himself...the passionate hugs and kisses of a few hours earlier feel a lifetime ago and he wonders if he entirely imagined them. It's unnerving to feel this simultaneously morose and jitteringly nervous. It's a deeply unsettling combination, like his brain and his body are fighting each other. Best to just sit.  
  
Alfie has loaded a tray with a teapot, cups and something else - he can't tell what - and starts walking from the kitchen along the hallway, shuffling slightly without the aid of his cane. He should say something, Tommy realises, move to help him carry it, or at least get out of the bloody way. But he is physically incapable of making the right decision, nauseous, glued to the spot. His eyes aren't focusing properly either, vision blurred so that there may be one Alfie heading slowly towards him or three, he's really not sure. He just sits there as if in a trance.  
  
"Fucks sake, mate," Alfie shouts when he spots him, the tray jumping with a clatter in his hands, "what the bloody hell...scared the shit outta me!" Tommy flinches fiercely at the outburst, startled by the noise, by Alfie's tone. He hugs himself tighter, makes himself smaller and stays exactly where he is.

He notices how Alfie's demeanour rapidly adjusts, because he's always been good at reading other peoples' body language. It's almost as though he is watching from afar, an impartial observer to this strange, midnight scene. The way Alfie bends down now is surprising, interesting even - he is moving unnaturally slowly, placing the tray carefully on the floor in front of him, not taking his eyes off Tommy as he crouches down. His expression changes too, the initial irritation swiftly replaced by concern as he steps around the tray and moves haltingly towards the stairs. 

"Sorry, didn't see you there," he whispers, "just scared me, thas all."

His voice sounds odd, warm and low and very soft. It's the way Tommy would speak to a spooked horse, he thinks. Why is Alfie talking to him like that?

"Thought you were asleep, love," he mumbles, hands reaching out.  
  
It's only when those warm hands come up to grasp his upper arms that Tommy realises he is shivering violently and he can't seem to stop it. He tries to say something, but his tongue is thick in his mouth.  
  
"Shit, Tommy. What'cha doing out of bed? Hmmm? Come 'ere." Alfie is on his knees in front of him and he shouldn't be, that's bad for his leg. He groans quietly as those strong arms wrap around him, encircling him completely, holding him close.  
  
"S'alright, love, I gotcha," he soothes; soft lips press to his shoulder, warm breath, a scratch of beard. Tommy feels relief rush through him like a hurricane.  
  
But then Alfie pulls away, tugging off his undershirt, and he can't help the rising sense of panic that engulfs him with the loss of touch.

  
"Here, take this. You're freezing, love," Alfie mutters, wrapping the soft garment over his shoulders, "come on, upstairs, I'll get that fire going again."  
  
But he's too afraid to move, and he doesn't even know what he's afraid of, just that he is. He feels as if he's on a ledge, a ledge he didn't want to be on, but he's been coaxed out to it and just left there. He shakes his head vehemently and Alfie changes tack.  
  
"Right, well here's good, yeah, we can just sit 'ere a minute," Alfie says, and he sidles round to sit on the step, next to Tommy, puts his arm around him too. Which is better. The arm is definitely better, like now there's at least someone on the ledge with him.  
  
"Where d'ya go?" Tommy rasps after a few long moments, not even caring that the question probably makes him sound ridiculous and feeble.  
  
"Just went to fetch you some supper. Can't have you getting any slimmer on me," Alfie says gesturing to the tray, now abandoned on the floor. "Didn't think you'd miss me. You were sound asleep, taking up most of the fuckin' bed as it happens."

  
"Sorry," Tommy whispers, feeling as though he's done something wrong, something selfish.

  
"Tommy?" Alfie says, looking perturbed at the apology, "don't be an idiot."

There's a pause, whilst they both seem to consider what to say, how not to make this any more awkward, until Alfie reaches down for one of the cups and passes it to Tommy.  
  
"Here, drink this." He is incredibly thirsty, his lips feel dry and wrinkled, but his hand is shaking so much when he tries to take the cup that Alfie has to hold it to his mouth for him, and he doesn't even bother to fight it, just drains the cup, let's him help.  
  
He needs to calm himself, to stop the shivering, to get a fucking grip. He stares hard at a knot in the wooden floor of the hallway, wonders how old the tree was that made these boards. The next thing he knows, Alfie is fishing in his pocket, pulling out a cigarette and putting it in his own mouth to light. It's the strangest sight because Tommy has never known him smoke. But as soon as the end flares orange, Alfie passes it to him, puts it between his lips and tells him to fucking smoke it. He's grateful, immensely grateful...it gives him something to focus on aside from the shaking. He clenches it between his lips and concentrates on inhaling the familiar smoke without even removing the thing from his mouth between lungfuls, because he doesn't trust his hands. He continues to stare at that same wooden board, wondering what the fuck is wrong with him?  
  
Alfie is staring at him intently throughout this interlude, not really saying anything, just rubbing his upper arm, until at some point he reaches up to remove the butt from Tommy's lips before he burns himself. He flicks it into the cup and they listen to it fizzle out against the china.  
  
"Right, better?" Alfie asks.  
Tommy nods slightly, not because he actually feels much better but because it's the expected response.  
"Now you're gonna go upstairs and get back into that bed right? And I am gonna bring up that tray and you are gonna eat something."

Alfie's tone is solid and sure and Tommy wants to do as he says, but upstairs feels a long way away at this very moment and he can't quite seem to muster the sequence of movements required to get him there. And so he doesn't move At all, until Alfie himself stands, bracing him under one armpit, saying quietly "come on, Thomas." Tommy's body finally responds and he pulls himself up on the newel post with his other hand, standing on shaky legs as he turns to ascend the stairs.  
  
The shirt hangs loose on him, Alfie's shirt, long enough to cover the worst of the bruises as he stands, but certainly not all of them as he climbs the first few stairs. He feels a blush creep over his face, down his chest and he can hear Alfie standing stock still below him, can feel those eyes upon his back.

"Stop fucking watching me," he breathes, overcome with shame, embarrassment. It's absolutely nonsensical to worry about this now, but he can't help it. All he hears from the other man is one word "shit," whispered under his breath. It must look as painful as it feels...he really doesn't want to know. Then Alfie is fussing with the tray, deliberately clinking and rearranging things, giving Tommy space to head back up unobserved.

  
\---

  
By the time Alfie enters the bedroom, Tommy is already back in the bed, curled up low under the covers - still cold, still shivering, still feeling very far from OK. He feels the tray being placed on the bed and listens as Alfie tends to the fire. Soon the room is bathed once again in a warm, yellow glow, lighting Alfie as he climbs onto the bed, shirtless and beautiful in his own gruff, masculine way. Tommy can't help but stare as the man settles down next to him, on top of the covers, sliding one arm under his neck and pulling him into a hug.  
  
He feels firm fingers brush through his hair, scraping his scalp, sending a delicate shiver down the back of his neck and scuttling across his shoulders. He dips his head into the gesture, reaches out and puts a hand tentatively on Alfie's bare stomach, the feel of his warm skin is familiar, calming, the way he's soft yet firm. Then fingers intertwine with his own and rest there, across Alfie's middle. It's only holding hands but it's not something they typocally do and it seems so tender that Tommy feels a swell of emotion rise up from his belly to his throat.  
  
"You know you're actually pouting," Alfie murmurs, looking down at him, "fucking pouting. How are you so fucking beautiful?"  
  
But he isn't pouting, he's trying to hold his lip in, to stop his chin from trembling - because that swell of emotion is threatening to erupt. He inhales slowly, trying to take a deep, grounding breath, but the air rushes in too sharply through his nose, inflates his chest too quickly and stutters in his throat. And then it's too late... there's nothing he can do...the air has to come back out...and it does...as a great, shuddering sob. He closes his eyes, clenches his fists and tries desperately to hold the rest in but it's futile, the tears are coming, his back is heaving and Alfie can already tell. He can fucking tell, and it's so humiliating, why is this even happening. He's kept his tears in his whole life, but for whatever reason, they seem to escape around Alfie. He feels bereft again, like he's on the worst come down of his life.  
  
"Fuck, Tommy," Alfie says, voice thick with compassion, which somehow makes it worse. "Just let it out, love," he soothes, pulling him closer.  
  
"Tell me it's ok," Tommy blurts out, apropos of nothing, because apparently he is fucking pathetic as well.

  
"It's ok, Tommy, yeah it is, love. It fuckin' is." Alfie responds immediately. "Everything is absolutely OK innit? Thought I'd lost you, didn't I? But I ain't fuckin' letting you go." And then Alfie is tugging him up the bed, pulling him over his chest and holding him so tight against his skin he can hardly breathe. He could swear he feels a faltering of breath in Alfie's lungs too, a less than stable inhale and exhale, before he clears his throat and corrects himself.  
  
"S'just a bit much, innit?" Alfie continues, voice thick, chin resting on the top of Tommy's head. It makes him feel small, the way Alfie does that, but in a good way. "Just a come down, love. Just coming back down from wherever you went. That's all."  
  
Tommy stutters, clinging onto him. And it's true. He was somewhere else by the end, despite being completely controlled, despite the intense pain, maybe because of it, fuck knows, but he was floating out of his head.  
"Yeah, I saw, mate," Alfie says. Somehow that makes him feel safe, slightly ashamed, but mainly safe...that Alfie saw. Alfie knew. They lie there, tightly entwined for a long time. He can feel the need in Alfie's grip and it calms him, makes him feel less alone in this.  
  
"Always thought dams were incredible things," Alfie says eventually, once the tears have dried up and he's faintly aware of birdsong outside the window. "There are over 300 dams in England. Bet ya didn't know that hmm? Different types too. Four main variants actually, but we won't get into technicalities. But they all do the same thing. Hold back the water. I mean it's conceited when you really _think_ about it. That we can build these huge fucking barriers, to hold back immense volumes of water, right. And most of the time they do exactly what we want. Keep that water back. But no matter how _big_ or how _strong_ that dam is, every now and again you gotta open the sluices. Otherwise, inevitably, they just...you know...give."

  
The analogy is too fucking obvious for words, Tommy would huff if he had the energy, would tell him to fuck off. Instead he hears himself saying, in a very small voice, "always preferred locks myself."  
"Yeah, well you would wouldn't you? Fucking gypsy business locks aren't they? Bet you're a dab hand with a lock gate."  
"Better than John and Arthur," Tommy mumbles.  
  
"Glad to hear it. Still, better eat something, else they'll end up stronger than you." Alfie shifts himself up, gently untangling Tommy's arm to reach down and drag the tray towards them. "Tea's stone fucking cold but bread and jam will be just fine."

  
Clearly Tommy's expression is not enthusiastic, because Alfie frowns as he picks up a knife and slathers jam onto a thick slice. "Just fuckin' eat it. S'good this jam is. Olly's Mrs makes it."

  
Tommy stares petulantly, but pulls himself up to sit against the headboard anyway.  
"If I have to fucking feed it to you I will," Alfie growls, eyebrows raised in warning.  
"Alright, alright," Tommy says, snatching the piece from Alfie's hand and biting it. It is good actually; the butter is rich on his tongue and the sugar hits his bloodstream and makes him feel warm. He leans his neck against the headboard and the pair of them eat in silence, just sitting there like some old married couple. He hadn't realised how hungry he was. Not surprising really, he'd been so anxious the previous day he hadn't eaten a single thing.  
  
"You didn't need to tie me down," he says,  
eventually, when they've eaten all the bread and drunk the cold tea besides. He's staring at the ceiling.  
"I know that," Alfie replies, infuriatingly calmly.  
"I wouldn't have moved."  
"I know, you're a tough little fucker," Alfie says, turning to place his cup on the bedside table. "But you'd have had the choice."  
Tommy pauses, swallows. "You didn't want me to have the choice?"  
"No. Wanted you to take it 'cause you had to. Not 'cause you'd chosen to."  
He doesn't reply, isn't sure how to take that revelation. Fuck Alfie for being so fucking sure of everything.  
"You cross about it?" Alfie asks.  
"Dunno." Tommy replies, because he genuinely doesn't. "But you ever do that thing with your thumbs again and I will fucking kill you."  
"Fair enough," is all Alfie says, before he reaches over to grasp Tommy's hand, just holding it in his lap. He looks down at their hands just joined like that, so simple yet it feels so delicate, so significant.  
  
"Stay here tomorrow," Alfie says softly. Tommy snorts quietly, because he wants to stay, but is surprised at Alfie asking like that.

"Thought of three hours on my arse in a car isn't very appealing right now, " he admits.  
Alfie turns, trailing one finger down Tommy's chest, through the open buttons of his own shirt. "Hmmm, how about I lick it better instead?" Alfie growls, putting one hand up to grasp the back of Tommy's head, pulling him into a deep, slow, passionate kiss. When they break away, Alfie instructs him to shuffle down, to turn over onto his stomach, and he pushes the shirt out of the way. He proceeds to do exactly as promised, licking every stripe and wound across Tommy's arse and legs.  
  
It shouldn't feel this good, the sting and heat and wetness, but Alfie is murmuring the whole time, telling him how beautiful he is, how strong, how fucking perfect and pretty soon Tommy can feel his hardness swelling beneath him, despite his tiredness.  
  
Alfie lifts himself up on his elbows and puts one arm under Tommy's chest, pulling him into his body and onto his side, until they are spooning. He can feel Alfie fiddling with his trousers and pushing them down before he nestles his own arousal against the crease of Tommy's arse.

"I'll go gentle," he whispers into Tommy's ear as he reaches one wet finger down and traces it over his entrance. Tommy pulls his knees up in response, hissing slightly at the way his sore skin stretches as he does so, and then Alfie is pushing straight into him, slow and easy because, well, anything would feel easy after last night. He places one hand flat across Tommy's sternum, just presses firmly there, keeping him close, then wraps his other arm over Tommy's waist and grips his hand. Then they are rocking together slowly, sweetly and it's so fucking easy. Tommy doesn't even care about the friction against his sore skin, he just knows that Alfie is holding him, fucking him so gently it feels like syrup and pretty soon he is making small whimpering noises, so incredibly turned on and so relieved at the same time because Alfie still wants him. Still wants to fuck him...like this...slow and gentle and...this is what he's missed.  
  
They fuck like that, slowly, reverently, until light starts to peak in at the curtains and Tommy is a keening, whimpering mess in Alfie's arms. Alfie reaches down to thumb his cock, nestling his beard into his neck as he breathes, "not gonna tie you down next time, love."  
"Next time?" Tommy gasps, and his voice sounds too high, but he can't help it.  
"Yeah, next time," Alfie hums, "gonna have you over my knee. I'm wanna feel just how hard you get against my thighs when I whip you with one of those belts."  
And oh _christ_ , against all his better judgement, for some godforsaken reason, Tommy's cock is _interested_ , fucking jumps in Alfie's hand at that suggestion. Which of course doesn't go unnoticed, just encourages Alfie on.

"Gonna make you yelp," he continues, "snatch all them pretty, hurt fucking sounds right outta your mouth, love."

And oh god, why is this making him so _hot_? Alfie is stroking him firmly now, long and too slow to finish, but just right to keep him absolutely on the edge. He's pulling out almost entirely with every thrust of his cock too, sliding back in slowly to hit that perfect spot, and it all feels so loose, so fucking good.  
"Gonna make you beg, Tommy," Alfie says, because apparently the man can't fucking shut up once he's started. Like that is any kind of revelation.

  
"Not gonna beg," he manages to say, very breathily, because speaking is pretty much his lowest priority right now.

  
"Yeah you will," Alfie growls, "Just that you won't know whether you're begging me to stop..." he thrusts, "or go harder... or let you come on my legs...'cause you'll be so fucking out of it."  
  
And with that he is coming, hard, long pulses into Alfie's hand and around Alfie's cock and he's fucking _whining_ through it, which would be mortifying if Alfie wasn't making an equally undignified sound and coming just as hard.  
  
He's already pretty much asleep when Alfie pulls out of him, smoothing the covers up over his shoulders and stroking hair out of his face. He is vaguely aware of the movement behind him but he's so busy melting into the mattress that he can't move, can't speak, doesn't care. Then he feels a small kiss to his cheek, a hand on his neck and he could swear Alfie is murmuring something to him, whispering really. It sounds suspiciously like, "fucking love you, Tommy," but he's probably misheard, must be dreaming already. He lets the comfort and darkness envelop him and he feels safe. For the first time in a long time. Utterly safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right that's it folks, that really is the end of this particular fic. Please let me know what you think, I really love to hear any feedback. Make my day!

**Author's Note:**

> I love to hear your thoughts, good and bad. Hope you dont all hate me after this one...Tommy is an emotionally-crippled, self-sabotaging idiot though, so it felt true to the character that he still shagged Tatiana. Sorry!


End file.
